


Summer Magic

by Maegfen



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Attempt at humour, Banter, F/M, Fluff, Magician/ assistant AU, and owns a theatre, the doctor is human, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3385904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maegfen/pseuds/Maegfen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not as if he’s actually trying particularly hard to find an assistant, but as soon as Clara Oswald appears at the door all smiles and charm and sarcasm everything changes; maybe it was finally time for the Doctor to do something about his failing stage show…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is the story that goes right along with the gifset I posted up on tumblr here: http://maegfen.tumblr.com/post/111307743466/twelve-and-clara-magician-assistant-au-its-not  
> It was initially going to be a one shot, but it's now grown legs so I've decided to split it up into chapters instead. I'm not sure how many parts there'll be, but I know how it all ends, and most of the stuff in the middle, so I'll get there eventually!

He’s attempting to throw the next card from the deck into his hat a few feet away when he hears the soft, tentative knock on the door. He ignores it at first, instead content to concentrate on the distance and the weight behind his next flick of the wrist. Miles Davies’ lyrical trumpet solo floats from the direction of the ancient but well-used gramophone in the corner, but the melody is suddenly drowned out by a more persistent tapping on the dressing room door.

“I’m _busy,”_ he half shouts, half whines, not bothering to turn and face his guest; it’s normally the groupies that seek him out now, fans from the ‘good old days’ who want to meet the man of mystery they remember from their childhood. He rarely talks to them anymore - he hates seeing the disappointment on their faces when they realise he’s not the man they remember.

“Doesn’t look like it,” comes a soft reply, the teasing tone laced with barely veiled sarcasm. The sound of it puts him off his next throw and the two of Hearts drifts aimlessly through the air, hitting the bowl of fruit in the corner and fluttering forlornly to the ground. He scowls at it before swivelling in his chair to face the person who’s interrupted him.

The first thing he notices about her is her eyes, large and wide but a playful expression crossing them. His own eyes trail down her face, noting the soft smirk that plays across the mystery woman’s lips. She’s leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over her chest and she raises an eyebrow in question as she takes in his viewing of her.

“Can I help you?” He eventually asks, a withering expression on his face as he shifts sightly in his chair. “I said I was busy…”

“And I said it didn’t look like it,” she answers, but her tone isn’t accusatory, merely playful; her voice matching the expression on her face. “I’m here about the assistant job; you’re the mysterious Doctor right?”

Her hands do some kind of weird motion in front of her, fingers wiggling in that age old suggestion of something ‘spooky’ at the word  _mysterious_.

He sighs then, because he'd _told_  himself he'd regret placing that advert in the local paper. It had been a last ditch attempt to stave off the final warnings from the bank about repossession of the theatre; he wasn’t expecting anyone to actually apply for the job.

And _yet_...

“Yeah, that’s me," he mutters eventually, his thick accent making the words sound slightly harsher than he'd intended. "Sorry, but the position’s already been filled, has been for weeks. If you could just see yourself out…” He motions dismissively towards the exit, hands flapping madly as he tries, in vain, to get rid of the unwanted visitor.

The young woman doesn’t move though. Instead, annoyingly, she steps more fully into the room so that she’s no longer leaning against the door.

“And that’s why the show’s been cancelled tonight and all next week yeah? Because your new assistant is all ready to go…”

The teasing tone is back and the Doctor finds it exceedingly irritating; clearly she’s seen right through his lie - the job’s been in the paper for the last few weeks; if someone had been hired he would have taken it out and have been ready for opening night.

“Oh, alright, I stretched the truth a little,” he mutters, wiping weary hands across his face before glaring at her. “There’s no assistant, but I don’t particularly _want_ one.”

“Enjoy the sight of bills mounting up do we?” She smiles as she moves away from the door at last and waves in the general direction of the piles of envelopes that rest precariously on the nearby table. He’s done a good job of ignoring them for the most part, but he frowns at them when she draws his attention to every growing stack once more.

“I might do,” he replies grumpily as he glares at her from across the room. “What’s it to you? And why do you want this job anyway?”

She shrugs again, the gesture casual. She ignores his first question and merely answers the second.

“I’ve got a place on a teaching course but I don’t start until September. Need some money so I won’t have to work during placements.”

It sounds logical really, but she doesn’t look like the type of girl who’d fit in on the stage as part of a summer job, doesn't appear to be someone who'd be comfortable in front of an audience. Instead, she looks more suited to shop work, or maybe babysitting.

“So why should I hire _you_?”

He’s got no real idea why he’s humouring her, but there’s something about the way that she’s acting that both riles and intrigues him. It’s been a long time, since River really, that someone has had the ability to do that.

“Didn’t say you had to,” the young woman replies, crossing her arms again. “But judging by the state of this room you’ve not had any other applicants and those bills aren’t going to pay themselves. It seems to me like you need to kick start your show, bring it to a larger, younger audience. And for that, well, I'm probably your best bet. That and if you don't do it I bet you'll be kicked out of this lovely place by the end of the month...”

He immediately resents her implication that he’s on the verge of being thrown out. But then, he concedes to himself, the bank _had_ said he was down to his last chance and he did need to turn a profit this summer in order to keep the theatre in business. He's not _that_ far off being in the black, but it all depends on how well his show goes down with the tourist crowd over the next couple of months. 

The Doctor figures he’s been delaying the inevitable for far too long. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and thinks over his options for a moment. Barely seconds later he opens his eyes and just looks at the mystery visitor. She's staring back at him with determination, as if daring him to turn her away.  _Well, with an attitude like that, who could say no?_

Decision made, he finally stands and walks towards her carefully, placing the deck of cards absently on the table as he moves. It isn’t until he’s right in front of her that he realises just how short she is. He peers down at her, and she peers up at him and there’s a singular moment when the Doctor decides to just take the plunge and go for it. After all, he asks himself sarcastically, what have I got to lose; _apart from my home, my job and my dignity…_

“The shows are going to start again next Saturday; a matinee performance. You’ve got until then to prove you’ve got what it takes to help out around here.”

The young lady flashes him the biggest smile he’s ever seen and she quickly sticks her hand out as if to formalise the job offer. The Doctor takes it with resistance and ignores the tingle of electricity that sparks with that first initial touch. She shakes his hand enthusiastically until he draws it back, frowning and rubbing at his wrist as if she’s permanently injured him. 

“I don’t even know your name,” he says eventually as he turns away from her and heads back to his chair, picking up the pack of cards again as he goes, hands subconsciously shuffling them as he moves.

“Clara,” the young woman states simply, smile spreading across her face once more, “my name’s Clara.”


	2. The Grand Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Clara start their working relationship with a week to go before their first performance...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter for you all :) I hope you enjoy it; I'm still trying to get my head around writing for these two, so any feedback would be most welcome!

Clara wanders into his dressing room early the next day without a by your leave and immediately slumps onto the sofa in the far corner, her summer dress fluttering slightly with the movement. She immediately crosses one of her legs over the other and shuffles back slightly, clearly making herself right at home. The Doctor frowns and notes that her hand is clasped around a takeaway coffee cup from the Starbucks opposite the theatre. It smells faintly of hazelnut, but he’s not _entirely_ positive. Instead of dwelling on it though he chooses to take a sip from his own cup of coffee; black but filled with five sugars, sweetness hidden in the darkness. He’s sitting up at the small table in the centre of the room, paper folded haphazardly as he attempts to read the local entertainment news; so far there’s nothing of note about his failure to start his summer performances - it’s a small blessing really.

“I’ve seen you before y’know.”

There’s no preamble, no ‘good morning’ or ‘hello’; she just marches straight on with her statement, voice quiet and full of amusement. The Doctor finds it slightly endearing and tries not to think about _why_. He’s only just bloody met her, he shouldn’t be finding anything about her endearing.

“Yes you have; only yesterday in fact. You know, when you barged in here and all but demanded a job.”

He watches as she throws a piece of fruit at him across the room. He catches the apple with ease and takes a hearty bite out of it, a smug smile on his face. Clara doesn’t say anything initially; just rolls her wide eyes at him.

“No, idiot. When I was little. I saw one of your shows with my Mum and Dad and you were brilliant. I had a poster on my wall for ages afterwards…”

He ignores the joking insult she’s thrown his way and instead rolls his eyes at her following statement, because of _course_ , his new assistant has some link to his past. Typical. Still, he reasons with himself, at least she’d seen him at his prime rather than the rundown act he has become in recent years; he’s changed so much since then that he wonders if she’ll recognise anything from the show at all.

“Well, it probably all went downhill from there to be honest,” he mutters, leaning over and grabbing at his coffee again, fingers tapping idly against the warm mug. “And you lose today’s pay for making me feel old…”

“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Clara reassures him, ignoring his jibe about pay and instead standing as she speaks. He watches her move quietly towards him, tossing her finished cup into the bin by the door as she makes her way across the room. “It’s just that people forget the traditions, forget the joy of witnessing magic on a stage; especially nowadays.”

She settles in the chair next to him, hands linked together and resting lightly on the table in front of her. The Doctor frowns at her movement into his personal space, but doesn’t mention it. Instead, he processes her words, mulls over them carefully before he answers.

“Wherein lies the problem. How am I…” Clara coughs loudly, which prompts him to change his wording, “sorry, how are _we_ supposed to draw in the crowds when the kids would rather be a home on their computers or whatever?”

“Well that’s easy,” she replies simply, fingers gliding over the pack of cards that lie on the desk beside his paper. “We just have to make them _believe_ again…”

The Doctor puts his head on the desk in frustration; this summer is setting out to be an impossible task, he can tell…

* * *

  
He doesn’t really have an official contract for her to sign, so they stick with the handshake from the previous afternoon and instead decide to discuss the plans for the show in his dressing room. It’s a brief conversation though, mainly because Clara has no idea about how a magic show _actually_ works, so the Doctor decides to give her the grand tour of the theatre before they continue to focus on how their new performances will come together. There’s still a week to go until their first potential show, so he’s happy to take the time out to get her used to the unfamiliar settings.  He decides to start in the lobby, and figures he'll work their way through to backstage, taking the route the performers have used for almost a century.

He explains about the architecture, how his parents built the theatre from scratch, how he'd grown up surrounded by audiences and had spent most of his adult life on the stage. Clara takes in every word, fascinated by the  _history_ of it all. The Doctor continues to tell stories as they continue the tour, adding small personal anecdotes when something crosses his mind. He's not entirely sure why he's sharing so much of his personal history with someone who is essentially a stranger, but if he's honest with himself he's not felt this comfortable around someone for years; he's not going to waste the opportunity to have a decent conversation with a captive audience.

“And _this_ ,” he says dramatically as he holds the door open to the main theatre, “is where we’ll be performing.”

Clara ducks under his arm and dashes into the room. It’s not particularly huge, only seating 400 or so, but it’s spacious enough to make the whole place seem incredibly traditional and awe inspiring. There’s none of the modern technologies found in many of the newer theatres, no panoramic TV screens, no overly complicated lighting set ups; instead it’s exactly what a place like this should be - seats and a stage, nothing between the audience and the performer...

“It’s _beautiful_ ,” Clara whispers as she takes in the sight before her. The Doctor feels a rush of pride at the sheer look of joy on his new assistants face.

“It’s not perfect,” he mutters eventually, moving to stand by her side. He takes in the sight, looking from the stage to the lower seating to the couple of private boxes and expansive higher tier. He still feels a tingle down his spine every time he steps in here. If he closes his eyes he can still hear the thunderous applause of the audience and the pride of his parents after his first solo performance. “But I’ve been very happy here; it’s home to me…”

He’s not really had the money to renovate the theatre a great deal in the 20 years he’s owned it outright since his father passed away. He’s touched up the paint work every now and then, and the seats have been replaced in the main auditorium a couple of times, but beyond that it’s still essentially the same outdated 1920’s theatre he’d grown up in. The traditional 1920's decor still make him smile and he's pleasantly surprised to see the same look on Clara's face.

She's wandering around the edges, hands tracing lightly over the walls, fingers looping carefully around the circular designs that cover the outer edge of the theatre. The Doctor sticks his hands in the pockets of his trousers and just watches, taking in the experience of someone falling in love with the theatre as he had done so many years before.

They spend a few minutes wandering around, and the Doctor can’t help but chuckle to himself as Clara eagerly clambers onto the stage and peers down at him.

“It’s quite scary up here,” Clara shouts down to him as he settles into one of the front row seats. “I can’t imagine all those people staring at you, watching your every move.”

“You get used to it,” he replies, watching her as she spreads her arms and spins a couple of times, twirling like a small child with all the freedom in the world. “By the time the performance starts I’m normally such a mixture of nerves and determination that I hardly even remember the audience is there.”

Clara smiles at him as she perches herself on the edge of the stage, legs dangling off and her small heels banging against the wood every time she swings them.

“Maybe that’s something we can change now I’m here.”

He looks at her curiously and tilts his head to the side in confusion, an unasked question on his lips.

“Well, now there’s two of us there’s more of an opportunity for audience participation right? Adds another element of distraction so that you can keep wowing the crowd with your magic.”

“Ah,” the Doctor mutters in reply, before nodding, “it’s a possibility; more movement on stage does make it easier to keep the audience’s focus off what I’m _actually_ doing.”

Clara beams at him, clearly ecstatic that she’s beginning to understand the basic principles of how a show runs; distraction, sleight of hand, the element of surprise.

“Come on,” he says eventually, as the two of them lapse into another period of silence, “let’s carry on with the tour; I want to spend some time going over the basics this afternoon, see if we can come up with something to start tomorrow.”

“Well then, by all means, lead on Macduff,” Clara says, jumping off her perch on the stage and wandering over.

“You know that’s not actually the proper quote,” he says absently, his eyes drifting back up to the now empty stage while he waits for Clara to join him.

“I know,” she says as she approaches, “I’m training to be an English teacher in the Autumn; I _should_ know my Shakespeare. I just thought it sounded good.”

He doesn’t reply, simply nods and moves to walk ahead of her. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Clara reaches out and catches his arm before he’s too far away, and a tug on his jacket forces him to turn around. He stares down at her, wondering why on earth she’s decided to manhandle him in the middle of his own theatre.

“Thank you,” she suddenly says quietly, words gushing out of her like she’s unable to stop them.

He’s confused again.

“For what?”

“For giving me this tour. For letting me work for you. For giving me a chance; I know you didn’t have to.”

“It’s nothing,” he replies, voice still laced with confusion, brows furrowed. “You’d only be causing trouble somewhere else if I hadn’t hired you. I'm really just doing a favour for society.”

She laughs then, a bright happy sound, and the Doctor tries to ignore how much it affects him. God, she’s so much younger than him, so much more carefree and joyful; had he ever been like that?

“That’s probably more accurate than you realise,” she says cryptically and marches out of the theatre ahead of him. The Doctor shakes his head and follows her, finds her waiting out by the main door but peering down a disused corridor. There’s a locked door at the end of it, and piles of boxes and old furniture littering the hallway in front.

“There’s a flat upstairs,” he comments, gesturing towards the cordoned off area. “I don’t stay there often; it’s become more of a dumping ground if I’m honest.”

“So where do you sleep?”

Clara seems genuinely interested, but the Doctor still gives her a wary look, as if she’s prying too far into his privacy.

“I’ve got a fold out bed set up in the back of my dressing room; seems to serve it’s purpose well enough. I don’t sleep often to be honest.”

“I see,” Clara says, her concentration now on the corridor they’re currently wandering through. It’s the one that contains the dressing rooms, and the two of them stop outside of the Doctor’s; the same one where she’d introduced herself the day before.

The Doctor gestures past the door, motions for Clara to continue walking. He stops outside of another door, painted pale blue and a small sign stating "DR.2" hangs somewhat haphazardly on the the outside.

“This is the second dressing room,” he states, even though he figures it’s pretty obvious. “You can keep some of your things in here over the summer if you want. It’s a bit smaller than mine, but you should find it quite comfortable; you are significantly shorter than I am after all, take up less space…”

He stops mid-sentence when he realises that he’s basically just insulted her height, insulted _her_  and the Doctor immediately expects her to throw something at him and walk out at his abrasive words. Instead, Clara merely laughs and swats him slightly on the shoulder.

“Is this how you’re going to treat me all summer?” She asks, humour lacing her tone.

He shrugs, and gives her a wry smile.

“Pretty much,” he admits, “I don’t think I’m the nicest of men. I don’t mean to insult you, it’s just how I am.”

“It’s fine,” Clara replies, a soft smile still adorning her features, “I get it. I’ve got the same sense of humour; we’re probably just as bad as each other.”

The Doctor figures they probably are, judging by the way they've instantly settled into an easy repartee and jovial banter despite only meeting each other the previous afternoon. He’s idly wondering whether this is a _good_ thing when Clara suddenly clutches his jacket sleeve again and tugs him towards his own dressing room.

“Come on,” she utters excitedly, an enthusiastic expression on her face as she continues to pull on his jacket, “I need a cup of tea and some lunch and then we can get down to business of planning our shows; I _really_ want to get started now...”

“Oh. Yeah, okay,” he replies quietly, following along in her wake. It seems that Clara Oswald is unwavering in her determination to start her new career and the Doctor has a sudden, dawning realisation that he’s probably only along for the ride…


	3. Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor adjusts to having a bossy woman as his assistant, Clara buys a dress and the first performance arrives...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only offer my sincerest apologies for the delay with this story. On the upside, I've found my muse to finish this off, so hopefully the wait won't be as long for the next chapter!

They spend the next couple of days going through his old routine trick by trick.

“I feel foolish,” The Doctor states, waving his hands in her general direction as he stands alone on the stage. Clara has settled herself into a chair in the front row, notepad in hand, pencil tucked behind her ear and her every present cup of coffee sitting precariously on the armrest next to her.

“Well you don’t _look_ foolish,” Clara replies, a joking tone in her voice.

“Thanks!”

“Come on, just get on with it! I wanna see your act as it is now; you were the one who wanted an assistant, so here I am, assisting.” She’s got a broad grin across her face and he can’t help but roll his eyes as he pulls a deck of cards from his pocket and immediately starts shuffling, the cards and his fingers moving in familiar rhythms and sequences as he prepares for the next trick in his act.

  
He steps forward on the stage and he can sense Clara’s eyes on him, on his hands. He’s noticed, even in their short acquaintance, that she focuses on his fingers and hands whenever he’s shuffling a deck of cards. He thinks, momentarily, that he should bring it up with her in the quiet of his dressing room later, but decides against it; she’s probably only doing it to mock him someway - no one’s ever been _that_ interested in his shuffling techniques.

“You’re being a pain in my arse more like,” he shouts teasingly, suddenly launching the cards in her direction and laughing as a single dove flies at her from the midst of the pack.

Her own high laughter sends a shiver down his spine; he’s not heard that much enthusiasm for that trick in a long time and her delighted giggle is on the verge of being infectious.

“That was amazing!” Clara shouts, standing up quickly to see where the dove has settled, head and body turning left and right to spot the bird. She knocks her coffee cup over as she does so, but her quick reactions just prevent the lid from coming off and causing brown liquid spreading across the seats.

“I try,” the Doctor says nonchalantly, before he whistles slightly and holds his hand out for the dove to return. He runs a finger down its back as it lands softly in his palm and sends it off to the side of the stage where he knows it will return to its cage - he’s trained the bird well over the years and, Clara aside, its the only thing he’s had for company for years.

“So what’s next?” Clara calls back then, eyes alight with laughter, voice eager to see the rest of the act.

“Wait and see,” he replies simply and with that his nerves and fears of looking ridiculous to her are gone. He concentrates on the task at hand, focuses on performing the solo tricks to the best of his ability.

An hour later, he finishes his final trick, a rudimentary disappearing act using smoke bombs and lighting effects and then he’s done. He stands awkwardly in the middle of the stage, hands twisting in front of him as he awaits her judgement.  
There’s silence for a moment before he hears Clara yell and clap and he looks up, a shy smile on his face.

“That was great!” she says, moving up the stairs to join him on the stage. “There’s loads of potential for adding extra stuff I think. But you were brilliant, you don’t even need an assistant at all.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, unsure of just _how_ to take the compliment.

“One thing though,” Clara says quietly, moving her hand to rest on his arm. Her other moves to his back and the Doctor pauses, frozen at the unexpected touch.

“What’s that?” he manages to utter, voice quiet and betraying all of the conflicting feelings that are rushing through him.

“You need to bow at the end,” Clara says, and applies pressure to his back and pulls slightly on his arm, causing him to pitch forward slightly in an obscure reference to a bow.

“OI!” he shouts half-heartedly as his balance shifts and it takes all of his grace and technique to prevent both of them from falling forward onto the stage.

“Sorry!” she replies, laughing softly as she helps him straighten up. He tries not to notice how her hand trails over the back of his waistcoat before her fingers leave his body. “You were just so stiff and awkward up there, you need to loosen up Doctor!”

 

* * *

 

“My goodness, you _are_ a bossy one aren’t you!” He exclaims, as he walks into the dressing room to discover that it’s been overtaken by pictures and blueprints. Some of them he recognises from the files he’d collected in his dressing room. Others, however, are new, and he wonders just where Clara has procured them from. 

“I think you’ll find it’s one of my many endearing qualities.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” he replies jovially as he wanders casually over to her side. His words earn him a soft punch on the arm that he doesn’t try to manoeuvre out of. He’s still not _entirely_ comfortable with human contact, but he’s finding Clara’s presence decidedly different from most of the other people he interacts with.

“What are you up to anyway?” He finally asks, settling down next to her, apple in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. The Doctor picks up a couple of sheets of paper and quickly takes in the pictures scribbled all over it. There’s a diagram of a saw, a box and a couple of stick figures; one tall one wearing a top hat and a shorter one in a skirt. Clearly Clara has been considering the old ‘let’s saw the assistant in half' trick and he thinks for a second that it’s a good thing she’s specialising in English and not Art.

“Trying to adapt some tricks for our show,” she states simply, not taking her eyes off the piece of paper in front of her. “I’ve been doing some research over the last couple of days, been looking over videos for some inspiration. These are some of the things I’ve found that we could easily adapt I think. But I’m not sure of what equipment you’ve got here, so I just kind of printed all of it off and doodled a couple of ideas too…”

  
Clara trails off, gesturing to the large amount of paper that now litters his desk. The Doctor scans the tricks and ideas that he can see easily. There are tricks here that he hasn’t seen or thought of for years, but Clara’s right; there’s a lot of potential here, a lot of opportunities to add a new twist to a couple of old, almost forgotten illusions.

“Okay,” he finally says, after a couple of minutes of quiet studying. “This is some really great work Clara, thank you.” He smiles softly at her, and he’s happy to see she returns the gesture. “I guess the next thing to do,” he continues, tone quiet as if he’s revealing some great mystery, “is to explore the basement…”

 

* * *

 

“I’m not being the Jonathan Creek to your Adam by the way.”

He stops halfway down the stairs, eyes her suspiciously. Or at least attempts to, seeing as there’s very little light available on the staircase.

“Huh?”

She sighs, despairingly and rolls her eyes. The gesture is lost on him though, as he can’t really see her face in the darkness.

“Y’know, Jonathan Creek? Used to create magic tricks for his boss, solved crimes on the side.”

“The who to my what?”

Clara shakes her head at him in disbelief before she jumps down a couple more steps to land right behind him. They’re heading down the stairs leading to the area underneath the stage. The Doctor hasn’t specified _why_ but Clara’s just happy to explore more of the old theatre, especially with the Doctor acting as her guide.

“Never mind,” she states simply, “old TV show about a magician’s assistant who solves crimes.” Clara pauses again, leans back a little to take him in. He’s in a new suit today, minus the jacket; the stark white shirt glows brightly in the dark of the stairwell. “You’d probably like it actually. Full of mysteries.”

She wiggles her fingers again in the ‘spooky’ manner, but he ignores her in favour of flipping a giant light switch. Clara squints as the brightness hits her eyes, but when her eyes adjust she carefully takes in her surroundings.

The two of them are currently underneath the main stage, somewhere he told her he hasn’t really been properly for months. It smells stale, the air filled with dust and there’s a distinct odour of mould. Great.

The Doctor waves his arms in the general vicinity of the wide space before them. Clara leans round him to take it all in, but he can sense she can’t really see anything; at least two of the bulbs down here have blown and it was never very well lit in the first place.

“I used to keep most of my equipment down here,” he says by way of explanation, his hands once again gesturing vaguely towards a couple of stacked wooden boxes in the corner. “I moved most of it up to the main dressing room, but there might be a few old relics we can use; seeing as you’re completely determined to revitalise the show.”

“Damn right I am,” Clara mutters absently as she pushes past him and into the semi-darkness of the space. She’s absolutely positive that they’ll find something useful down here, something that will kickstart the show and get them well on the way to being one of the most popular shows this tourist season.

The Doctor merely sighs again and follows after her.

 

* * *

 

“Well, I’m not wearing _this_ …” Clara exclaims suddenly a short while later, her head stuck deep into one of the old boxes under the stage. The Doctor watches with interest as she stands up completely, pulling something silver, sequin-y and incredibly garish from the midst of the box. Clearly this had been the costume container and he leans back against the wall as she turns to face him completely, horrific dress still in hand.

“God, nor would I expect you to! You’d disorientate half the audience every time you turned around; you’re short enough to be mistaken for a disco ball in that thing.”

He laughs as she throws the dress at him half-heartedly. He flinches as the sequins somehow reflect a little of the light right into his eyes. It really is an awful dress.

“I’ll buy something for myself yeah? That’s probably the best bet.” The way she says this leaves him with no doubt that even if he said 'no' she'd do it anyway. From what he's learnt of his assistant in the last few days, it's that she's headstrong and not afraid to do whatever the hell she likes. It should be an incredibly frustrating trait, but the Doctor finds he likes it about her.

“Mmm,” he eventually hums quietly in assent, his concentration now focused on the large mirror he’s uncovered.

“Good, glad you agree,” Clara says, and the Doctor can tell without looking at her that’s she’s smiling.

“Just make sure it’s ready for the performance on Saturday,” he says to finish the conversation (and because he always needs to have the last word in these things.)

  
Clara laughs and punches him half-heartedly on the arm. The Doctor feigns being injured, but smiles nonetheless.

 

* * *

  
The day of their first performance eventually arrives and the Doctor paces his dressing room while he waits for Clara to reappear. She’d poked her head round the door half an hour ago, a bag over her arm and a broad grin on her face.

“Sorry, hi, I’m here, bus was a bit late! Got my dress though,” she’d said in a flurry of rushed explanation and she’d flown back out the door before he’d had a chance to say a word.

He pulls the old pocket watch from his waistcoat and flicks it open, the movement familiar and comforting. There’s 20 minutes left until the two of them are due on the stage, and he really _really_ wants to get up there in plenty of time. He’s got a couple of youngsters from the local college sorting through the tickets and the seating, so all that’s left from he and Clara to do is, well, get up on stage and perform. They’re not going all out for the performance. Instead, they’ve chosen a few tricks from his old routine, and added in a few where she can help out. A week wasn’t the best period of time to get her acquainted with all the necessary tricks, but he’d promised that they’d work intensively on them in between performances.

There’s a quiet knock on the door, and the Doctor mutters a quick ‘come in’ while he tries to find a spare deck of cards in one of the drawers.

He hears, rather than watches, Clara enter the room, and it isn’t until she clears her throat after a few moments that he bothers to turn around.

Oh _wow_ , The Doctor thinks, as soon as his brain kicks back into gear. He suddenly feels very under dressed.

She’s bought something simple yet elegant, that will clearly give her her enough freedom to move around on the stage, yet would still manage to distract even the more perceptive of audiences. The dress is a combination of copper and black sequins, styled like a 1920’s flapper gown that hugs Clara’s figure beautifully. It’s short, but not outrageously so, and the look is rounded off by a pair of tall black heels and some long black gloves.

She looks _stunning_.

“So, do I pass muster?”

He’s not used to the nervous tone in her voice, but instead of finding it ridiculous, he finds it endearing. The Doctor tries to find the words to show that he likes the dress, that he loves how she looks, _without_ sounding like some dirty old man…

“Oh you actually scrub up quite well don’t you; you look like you’ve had a wash and everything;” he says, giving her a quick once over when he realises that he could quite happily just stare at her all afternoon. However, they do have a performance to put on, even if only a quarter of the theatre is full. “Come on, it’s nearly show time…”

He completely misses the look of disappointment that crosses her face at his poor choice of words, and instead holds out a hand.

“Ready?” he asks, waiting until Clara slips her hand into his. The warmth of her palm relaxes him immediately, but he doesn’t dwell on it; now’s not the time to be considering any potential feelings for his assistant.

“As I’ll ever be. Lead the way Doctor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I very blatantly stole Clara's dress from Mummy on the Orient Express for this fic. How could I not?!

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hesitate to tell me what you think; it's the first time I've written for these two so any feedback would be greatly appreciated.


End file.
